The Draycott Murder Mystery: A Golden Age Mystery

by Molly Thynne

  This note had evidently been made after her divorce and subsequent marriage to Captain Draycott and suggested that, for some reason, Gregg was wishful to retain a hold over her and proposed to use this hold if necessary. It looked as if Gregg’s power to harm her had ceased with Draycott’s death, in which case he could hardly have used his knowledge to force her to meet him at the farm. At the same time, Fayre realized that he had at last stumbled on a possible motive for an assignation. Supposing that Gregg’s power over her still held and that, for some reason, he had decided to put on the screw. Given the man’s bitterness against her, combined with his obviously uneven temper, it was not outside the bounds of possibility that he had been exasperated beyond endurance at her refusal to accede to his demands and had shot her in a moment of blind rage. Fayre, knowing Gregg, could not bring himself to believe that the thing was premeditated. He did, on the other hand, consider him perfectly capable of using the revolver as a threat, probably with no intention of firing it.

  Fayre slipped the letter back under the string before extracting the one underneath it and was glad he had done so for, while he was in the very act, his ear caught the sound of an approaching motor. Quick as lightning he threw the packet back into the drawer, closed and locked it and was back in the surgery before Gregg was out of his car.

  He heard him open the front door and go down the passage, where he was evidently met by the maid, for, a few minutes later, he appeared at the surgery door and invited Fayre into the study.

  His manner was no less cordial than it had been on the previous occasion, but, this time, Fayre had the impression that he was waiting rather sardonically for an explanation of his visit. He hastened to assure him that he had come as a patient and went on to describe certain perfectly genuine recurrent symptoms, the result of the heavy bouts of fever he had suffered from in the East, complaining that they seemed to be becoming more frequent, probably as the result of the English climate.

  Gregg listened to him in silence and, when he had finished, asked him the usual questions, making notes on the pad at his elbow as he did so. He finished by subjecting him to a very thorough examination.

  “You’ve taken up bicycling lately, I see,” he said, as he thrust his stethoscope back into his pocket.

  “Yes. Anything against it?” asked Fayre, who was standing before the glass over the mantelpiece, refastening his collar.

  “Nothing. You’re in as perfect a state of health as any one can expect to be who has lived the greater part of his life in the Tropics. In fact, you’re an admirable example of what temperate living will do for a man in a hot climate. I congratulate you!”

  The words were harmless enough, but Fayre, suddenly catching sight of Gregg’s face in the glass, was not taken in by them. He realized, and the discovery was anything but pleasant, that the doctor was laughing at him in a grim way all his own.

  “I’ll make you up a prescription, if you like,” he went on, unaware that Fayre was watching him, “but I warn you it will probably be the same as the one you’ve got already.”

  “Thanks,” said Fayre warily. He was waiting for the other’s next move. “I suppose I may count myself lucky to have got off so lightly.”

  “You can thank your own common sense,” was Gregg’s curt rejoinder, as he turned to his writing-table.

  Fayre slipped his hand into his breast pocket and the doctor gave him a quick, sidelong glance.

  “There’s no fee,” he said abruptly.

  Fayre’s colour deepened as he took out his note-case and opened it, but he waited in silence for Gregg’s explanation. It came with startling clarity.

  “You didn’t come here to consult me, Mr. Fayre. You could have done that any day at Staveley. And I doubt if you took up bicycling for the sake of exercise. And that paint you got on your coat the other day was put there on purpose. Oh, I know it was paint, all right,” he cut in, as Fayre opened his mouth to speak. “I verified that, as you thought I should. I also discovered that you went straight from here to Stockley’s garage, as the result, I suppose, of something my man told you. He described you, by the way, as ‘a very chatty gentleman’! It was unfortunate for you that I paid my bill at Stockley’s that evening and had a word with him. Stockley is a chatty gentleman, too. The thing I want to know now is, what’s it all about?”

  He had risen and was sitting on the edge of the writing-table, his hands in his pockets and his truculent eyes on Fayre’s.

  “Leslie’s your friend, I understand, and I can only imagine that you’re working in his interests,” he went on. “I should like to mention that he’s also mine and that there’s nothing that would give me greater pleasure than to hear that he’s been cleared. That being the case, I should be obliged if you’d tell me your object in hanging about here and questioning my servants. Anything you wish to know I prefer to tell you myself.”

  Fayre was silent for a moment. When he spoke he chose his words carefully, but it was evident from his whole bearing that he was saying frankly what was in his mind.

  “I’m not sorry it’s come to this,” he said, meeting Gregg’s angry gaze squarely. “To tell you the truth, I’m not proud of the part I’ve been playing and it’s relief to me to come out into the open. In answer to your question, let me put one to you. Why have you concealed the fact that Mrs. Draycott was an old acquaintance of yours?”

  The doctor’s eyes shifted ever so slightly. Evidently he was unprepared for so bold an attack.

  “I had my own reasons,” he said curtly, “and I’m not accountable to you or any one else for them, at present, at any rate.”

  “You admit that you did know her?”

  “I admit nothing.”

  “And if I tell you that I have proof that you not only knew her but were intimate with both her and her husband at one time?”

  “I still admit nothing and I deny your right to question me.”

  “Let me put it to you in another way, then,” went on Fayre, firmly keeping a hold on his temper. “You say you are a friend of Leslie’s. He is lying at this moment under the shadow of an accusation that we both know is totally unfounded. In the face of that, do you still refuse to say anything?”

  Gregg laughed suddenly and bitterly.

  “We both know! There’s a sting there, isn’t there? If by clearing him you mean confessing to a murder I didn’t commit, I certainly do refuse. I suppose that’s what you’re driving at, but you’re taking a good deal for granted, aren’t you?”

  Fayre suddenly lost patience.

  “Good heavens, man,” he cried, “if you had nothing to do with it, why not say so, and if you can prove it, so much the better. I’ve only one motive in all this, to clear Leslie. Why work against instead of with me?”

  “Because I resent your insinuations. If you think you’ve got anything against me, prove it. You’ve apparently had the damned impertinence to rake up my past and pry into my private affairs and you’ve all but told me to my face that I killed Mrs. Draycott. Well, take your story to the police and see what ice it cuts with them! If they’ve any questions to ask me I’m ready to answer them. Meanwhile, I advise you to take your amateur detective work elsewhere.”

  Fayre hesitated for a moment; then he decided to make one more effort towards conciliation.

  “I’m very sorry you’ve taken this line,” he said. “Frankly, I have hoped all along that you would be able to give some satisfactory explanation of your attitude towards the whole affair. I can very well believe that the subject is a painful one to you and I can sympathize with your reluctance to drag it up again after all these years, but you must admit that your behaviour has been open to suspicion. Once more I appeal to you to act reasonably, if only for Leslie’s sake.”

  Gregg’s only answer was to stride heavily to the door and fling it open.

  “I have already told you that I resent your interference,” he said shortly. “If I make any statement, it will be to those who have a right to demand it. You can hardly be sur
prised if I don’t consider you one of them. Take what steps you please, but I warn you that I am quite prepared to meet them.”

  Without a word Fayre took out his note-case once more. He walked over to the writing-table and picked up the prescription Gregg had written, leaving two guineas in its place. Then he took his hat and coat and left the room with such dignity as he could muster. As he passed through the hall he heard the crash of the study door as Gregg slammed it, and realized that in the first encounter, at any rate, the honours of war were to the doctor. Either the man was innocent or he had put up the most amazing bluff Fayre had ever encountered.

  And the worst of it was that, as Gregg no doubt guessed, he was not in a position to act. His information, as far as it went, pointed to but one thing: Gregg’s deliberate attempt to conceal from the police his former connection with Mrs. Draycott. Beyond this, Fayre had nothing to go on, unless he could trace the mysterious car to Gregg. According to Stockley, the proprietor of the garage, he had taken out the hired car at five-thirty. This would give him ample time to drive to one of the several other garages within a radius of ten to fifteen miles, change his car, pick up Mrs. Draycott and arrive at the farm at about the time the murder was presumably committed. But here the London number on the car described by the carter arose as a distinct stumbling-block, for it was extremely improbable that a local garage would have a London car for hire. On the other hand, if by some extraordinary chance one of them had let out such a car, it should be easy enough to get on the track of it; but Fayre realized that the doctor had him at a hopeless disadvantage unless he could manage to trace his movements on the night of the twenty-third, and he recognized the cleverness of the man in forcing his hand before his investigations were complete. And yet, for the life of him, he could not make up his mind whether Gregg’s outburst had been mere bluff or the genuine anger of a man smarting under the sting of a false accusation. Either way Fayre had cut an uncommonly poor figure and he was painfully aware of the fact.

  CHAPTER XIV

  After dinner that night Lord Staveley, wishing to ring up his bookie, strolled into the little anteroom that housed the telephone. Here, to his surprise, he discovered Fayre. He had settled himself comfortably in the one armchair and, with the help of the local telephone directory, was busy compiling a list on a half-sheet of paper. Bill Staveley eyed him quizzically.

  “Rotten place to spend the evening,” he observed with cheerful scorn. “Looking for a good dentist, or is it Sherlock Holmes on the trail?”

  “It’s Holmes in the devil of a muddle,” was Fayre’s acid rejoinder. “I’ve come a cropper, Bill!”

  “In other words, you’ve met your match. Who’s the local genius?”

  “Gregg. I started out to pump him according to the most approved methods and he pumped me instead and very efficiently too! And he was uncommonly disagreeable about it.”

  “He would be. What have you got against him? I suppose you know that, amongst other things, he’s the Police Surgeon?”

  “I don’t care if he’s the Prime Minister!” snapped Fayre, still hot from his gruelling at Gregg’s hands. “But I’d give something to know where he was on the night of Mrs. Draycott’s death!”

  Bill Staveley gave a low whistle.

  “As bad as that, is it? Why, he was at the farm, wasn’t he? I thought he gave evidence.”

  “He turned up at the farm soon after ten o’clock, after the police had been trying to get him for nearly an hour. The assumption was that he had come in late from a case and, as far as I know, he has never been asked to give an account of his movements. All I do know is that he left the Whitbury garage at five-thirty in a hired car and, apparently, did not get home till about nine-thirty, when he found the police call waiting for him.”

  Staveley’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Fayre.

  “You don’t seriously mean that you suspect Gregg of Mrs. Draycott’s murder?” he ejaculated.

  “On my word, I don’t know what to think. If the fellow was bluffing this afternoon he did it uncommonly well. If he wasn’t, why didn’t he clear himself? He could have done it easily.”

  “What line did he take?”

  “Told me to go to the devil—in other words, the police—and flatly refused to give any account of himself whatever. The worst of it is, he’s in a very strong position. Practically the only thing I’ve got to go on at present is the fact that he undoubtedly knew Mrs. Draycott at one time and has gone out of his way to lie to the police about it. You must admit it looks fishy.”

  “The devil he did! Do the police know?”

  Fayre looked rather sheepish.

  “Unless they’ve been pursuing the same lines of investigation as myself, they don’t. I kept quiet about it in the hope that it might lead to something.”

  “Being naturally afraid that the Force, in its naïve way, would blunder. Oh, Hatter, Hatter, this comes of reading detective stories!”

  “I know; you needn’t rub it in. I’ve made an infernal hash of the whole thing.”

  “How much did you tell the fellow?”

  “Quite enough to put him on his guard, unfortunately.”

  “What’s your theory about the whole thing?”

  “Somebody picked up Mrs. Draycott in a car and drove her to Leslie’s farm. Everything points to that. We’ve got good reason to believe that we’ve got part of the number of the car. It ran into a farm-cart and the carter took what he could see of it. If the man in the car was Gregg he must have done one of two things. Either he deliberately faked the number of the car he hired from the Whitbury garage, or he changed cars somewhere before he picked up Mrs. Draycott. There is, of course, the possibility that he picked her up in the hired car and somehow managed to reach the farm and get away again without being seen. In the light of what we know, this is extremely unlikely.”

  “If he’s got an alibi, why on earth doesn’t the fellow produce it?”

  “Either because he’s so sure of his position that he can afford not to or for the more simple reason that he hasn’t got one. Meanwhile, I’m left kicking my heels. I’ve got a list here of the garages in this neighbourhood within a radius of fifteen miles or so. If he did change cars, it will be bound to have been at one of them.”

  “Touching spectacle of Mr. Fayre, late of the Indian Civil, peddling on his little push-bike within a radius of fifteen miles!” mused Bill Staveley. “Poor old Hatter! I can let you off that, though. You don’t know Foot, do you?”

  “That’s the chap who drove me the other day, isn’t it?”

  “Probably. He was my batman in France and, after the war, I gave him a driver’s course. He took to it like a duck to water and he’s a first-rate chauffeur and an uncommonly intelligent chap. He’s bought himself a motor-bike and takes it to pieces every Saturday night just for fun and I’ll bet there isn’t a garage round here where he hasn’t talked motor for hours. Give him the description of the car you want and he’ll find it for you if it’s anywhere in this part of the country.”

  “The question is, will he talk?”

  “Not if I give him a hint. You can leave that part of the job to him quite safely. On the other hand, if we could get onto the case Gregg was called to that night we could keep Foot out of it altogether. Even if he was at the farm that night he must have gone on somewhere afterwards. He’s not such a fool as to drive vaguely round the country for three solid hours before going home. You may be pretty certain he looked up a patient, even if he wasn’t called to one.”

  “None of the tenants been ill or injured, I suppose?”

  “Not that I know of, but we might go through the local rag. I’ve got it in my room and it’s one of those conscientious papers that puts in catchy little comments on old Mrs. Snook’s chilblains and that sort of thing. It doesn’t miss much and if any one hurt himself that night, we shall find it there.”

  They adjourned to the library, where they spent a fruitless half-hour searching the columns of the local paper. They were ab
out to give it up in despair when Fayre, who had reached the last page, gave a cry.

  “What about this?” he asked, pointing to the Births column. “March 23rd. The wife of George Hammond of The Willow Farm, Besley, of a son.”

  “Would Gregg be their man?”

  “Sure to be. He attends all the farmers round here. Hammond’s a tenant of mine and I can ride over tomorrow, if you like, and do the heavy landlord. As a matter of fact, it’ll probably be expected of me, sooner or later, so it won’t rouse any comment. I take it that you want to know what time Gregg was sent for, what time he arrived, and when he left, with a description of his car, if I can get it without rousing too much curiosity. Anything else?”

  “No. I think that covers it. How long ought it to take him to reach the Hammonds?”

  “If he left Whitbury at five-thirty he should arrive at Besley at five to six, and the farm is, roughly, five to ten minutes’ run from Besley. Say thirty to thirty-five minutes.”

  “And if he took the corner of the lane running to Greycross and then Leslie’s farm on the way?”

  “Give me a minute. That’s considerably more complicated.”

  He took a pencil and made some notes on an old envelope.

  “Just under the hour, I should say. Perhaps longer. That’s not allowing for getting out and going into the farm.”

  “In that case, we’ll give the garages the go-by for the moment,” decided Fayre. “Time enough for them when we’ve discovered whether Gregg was at the Hammonds’ or not. It will be just as well to keep your man out of it, if possible.”

  “Good. Then I’ll ride over to Willow Farm tomorrow and see what I can find out. By the way, did I tell you that Kean is coming down to-night? You can have the whole thing out with him to-morrow. He ought to be able to suggest something.”